


The Orchard

by agapecentauri



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agapecentauri/pseuds/agapecentauri
Summary: One shot.  Dreamlike setting.  Might add another chapter or two...
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	The Orchard

_ The first time I heard his voice, I thought it was simply a dream, the strange time between sleeping and waking. It felt like a trance that embraces my mind, and I never craved anything so desperately in my life. _

The slightly dry wild grasses crunch quietly beneath my bare feet. The summer air is so oppressive, so silent, so still - it is impossible not to give in to the feeling of the cool earth underfoot. The orchard trees are covered with simple green leaves, barren of any apples but the fragrance of sweet fruit blooms fill my senses and make me yearn for the cool kisses of autumn.

We just moved into this small cottage over the winter escaping the big city life. Mom and Dad said it was to get back to quieter times, but I honestly think it’s because they got tired of dealing with me. I consider myself a wanderer and a dreamer, always feeling like I’m meant for more, and an imagination that tends to take me far away from the realities of life. I’m 22 years old and I’ve never been in love before. I write a lot; I sing a lot but only when I’m alone; and I escape into a world I create in my mind. Truth be told, however, is that I’m terribly lonely and sad. My heart yearns for something but I’m not exactly sure what it is.

Our backyard hugs the property line of a huge apple orchard and farm owned by some man whom we have yet to meet. Today I decide to push the boundary and cross into an enchanted world, my imagination running wild that I’m a character out of a Jane Austen novel. I twirl around in my flowing lace dress, strands of hair escaping the updo of pins. I feel the warm summer breeze caress my skin. I’m running deeper and deeper into the grove of apple trees, the smells of apple blossoms pulling farther and farther away from home. The green grass is cool beneath my feet as I begin singing a serenade for autumn.

_ The falling leaves drift by my window  
_ _ The autumn leaves of red and gold _

I stop singing when my feet are suddenly immersed in the shallow, cool waters of a bubbling stream. I giggle to myself as I splash around and dredge my hands into the smooth, calm waters. Words from my serenade escaped and just as I sing, I hear a voice, a most beautifully deep voice sing back:

_ I see your lips, the summer kisses  
_ _ The sun-burned hands I used to hold _

I stop dead in my tracks, my mind working frantically to decipher if this is part of the world I just created or if it was the real world. So I stop and listen closer, the voice floating and riding the summer breeze and I hear it again…

_ Since you went away the days grow long  
_ _ And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song _

“But I haven’t gone away,” I whisper into the wind and return the voice’s melancholy serenade:

_ But I miss you most of all my darling  
_ _ When autumn leaves start to fall _

My feet pick up speed as I leap over the creek and down the path in between two rows of apple trees. I hear the voice in the wind giggle at my frivolity and I hear my voice giggling along. I’m back in my Jane Austen world, again my white lace dress billowing in the breeze behind me as I’m running along. The song escapes my lips as I sing out to that dulcet voice,

_ I miss you most of all my darling  
_ _ When autumn leaves start to fall _

“Christine…” my name is whispered in the gentle breeze and I freeze in my steps. I stand completely still and listen ever so carefully to the perfect annunciation of every syllable of my name. 

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” I ask barely above a whisper. Suddenly the sun plays a game of hide and seek as dark clouds have quickly drifted in. A crack of thunder in the distance matches a boisterous laugh coming from somewhere in the trees. “Who are you?” I ask louder, attempting to have authority over growing fear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, my Christine?” his voice responds, sliding down my skin in perfect time with the water droplets dotting my skin. Again the way his voice says my name urges my feet forward. Forgetting the rain and silencing the storm rocking in the clouds, I feel my feet quicken their pace. “Christine…” another sighing whisper. “Come Christine…” louder still his voice is calling me. The rain is falling heavier, my clothes are soaked through. The once beautifully perfect grasses beneath my feet are now sopping mud, slippery, wet, and my feet have no traction. A loud clap of thunder causes me to stumble and I fall before a most curious tree in the middle of the orchard. And leaning against the tree is such an oddly fascinating silhouette of a man. He’s so tall, towering over me… he wears a mask which I find strangely terrifying and yet beautiful. 

“Are you the one who has been calling to me?” I ask as he reaches out a hand to pull me off the ground. He smiles while placing a beautiful crimson rosebud into a pin in my hair. “Who are you? How do you know my name?” He remains completely silent, smiling at me, his long fingers brushing away my hair.

“Christine…” I hear my name but his mouth doesn’t move. “Christine…” he still smiles at me. Again I hear my name and he glances up and looks to the horizon. I follow his gaze to see what has captured his attention, feeling my hand in his. As soon as my eyes meet the horizon, I feel him place a soft kiss into the palm of my hand and again my name is called. I turn to find him gone and I search frantically for him. 

I mouth the words  _ where are you _ but the voice is not mine. “Christine… Christine? Christine where are you?” I blink wearily and am strangely blinded by the hot summer sun once again. I look around to find myself not in the orchard, but instead in the backyard of my home, laying on a picnic blanket as I watch Grandma Valerius approach with a warm smile. “Oh you sleeping child, you’ll be as red as a radish laying out in this hot sun. Lunch is ready, come inside.”


End file.
